Practice
by HopefulNebula
Summary: Practice makes perfect.  PeterClaude.  My first attempt at anything mm.  Takes place sometime after Unexpected.


Title: Practice

Author: HopefulNebula (at livejournal dot com)

Rating: R or M or whatever letter is supposed to denote "not-for-kids-but-not-totally-explicit."

Summary: Practice makes perfect.

Disclaimer: ...Do I really have to do this? OK, fine. No ownership, no profit. If I owned Heroes, I wouldn't be trying to hide the fact that I'm writing gay pr0n in the classroom.

Note: I was inspired to write this by one line in misachan's drabble "Cleveland", available on heroes100words on LJ. The author gave me permission to run with the idea. I shelved this for a bit, as it's my first attempt at writing m/m anything, but then re-watched "Unexpected" the other night. Since intense!focused!Peter makes me happy in my pants, I had to open this up again.

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The first thing Claude noticed while floating on the edge between sleep and wakefulness was the pressure: a hand stroking his cheek. It disappeared as soon as he turned his face toward it, but before he could even register annoyance at the fact, it had returned, this time to his other cheek. The cool touch against the warmth his body had kept from its contact with Peter's couch was nice, to say the least. Another hand started tracing a gentle path through his hair, further sending Claude into a state of disconnected bliss. Only about thirty seconds after a third hand started stroking the stubble on his neck did he even think something was odd about the situation, and it took him several seconds after that to gain enough control to open his eyes.

There was nobody there. Or rather, Peter _was_ there, but he was sitting in the soft chair across the room, wearing only a pair of boxers and a wicked grin. When he saw Claude stirring, he raised the hand he didn't have pointing at Claude to his lips. Though he didn't make a sound, his meaning was clear. Some part of Claude wanted to disobey, to ask Peter why, to say _something_, but when he opened his mouth, Peter moved his touch-that-wasn't-a-touch lightly farther down along his body, and it was all Claude could do to sigh. God, that felt absolutely fantastic. It had to be because he could read minds that Peter knew how to touch that spot just above Claude's hip, to stroke further around his body until reaching his spine. In all their previous meetings, he'd never given any indication that he knew about it, and Claude had never told him. And it had to be because this touch was non-physical that every bit of pressure went straight through his nerves to his most sensitive parts. Christ, he was hard already, and Peter hadn't even touched him.

As if Peter were following those musings--and perhaps he _was_, Claude realized--his ghost hands took a firm grasp on him, pulling and tugging in strange ways. Unhindered by limitations of the flesh, Peter could do--was doing--unspeakable things to him, and Claude was helpless but to feel, and to half-form the thought that if this kept up, he wasn't the one who'd be cleaning Peter's couch. And then there was that pressure, like two cool, airy fingers, tracing from his navel down, around, and back up again. One wispy touch traced his spine all the way up to his neck, then tracing a spiral around his shoulder blade. These sensations seemed to be strongest slightly below the skin, and whether it was the telekinesis or Peter getting into his mind or both, they hit exactly the nerves that would send _pleasure, pleasure, pleasure_ coursing through the rest of him. They hit the vein that straddled the length of him, that spot _inside_ that was normally so hard to reach, and he was already near breaking point. No shame in it going so quickly, not when there wasn't any way to reciprocate. Not when Claude had never seen Peter so single-minded, so focused. His unblinking brown eyes through a veil of dark hair were such an unbelievable turn-on. And then Peter was whispering--just over Claude's moaning, and it was a testament to the amount of pleasure he was feeling that he didn't even mind that he was making such sounds--whispering nonsense syllables, telling him that it was all right to be feeling this, that's why he was here, and Claude couldn't hold it in any longer. Somehow the touches only became more intense as he began coming. He was forgetting how to breathe. He was being held lightly in place, which was good because he would have spasmed off the narrow couch otherwise. Peter always knew how to make the most of Claude's orgasms, and he did so now. So much touch everywhere, even after he was done.

Only then was Peter there, skin finally touching skin, soft hands on his trembling body. Peter's gentle nature wasn't his own undoing, it was _Claude's_. His undoing and his salvation packed into ten soft, strong fingers.

"Who taught you that?" he asked, relishing the feel of his lover's hands.

"No one. You wanted me to surprise you with something. I just wanted to deliver. Besides... I need all the practice I can get."

"No fair," Claude mumbled as he faded into the post-coital abyss. "How on Earth am I going to be able to surprise you?"

Peter only chuckled and put a blanket over Claude's feet. "Go back to sleep, you."


End file.
